He was your typical pride demon: leather-gloved fingers caressing the polished wheel of his Chevy Malibu as he drove, designer sunglasses, a weathered-faced smirk. His showpiece mortal posed for us in the passenger seat, giggling her life away as she sucked down one cigarette after another and tried not to drop ashes on her red silk party dress. Her loose, giddy laugh told a story of a soulless body, the high that comes in the wake of lost innocence and a distant conscience.
"Desiree?" he sneered. "That's what you're going by now?"
I took the bait and defended myself, sitting up straighter in the back seat so I could glare into his rear view mirror. "Most of them don't pick up the irony until far too late, if ever. Besides, you're not being very subtle yourself, Lord."
He clearly believed his answering expression to be boyish and charming, not insufferably smug. "I enjoy hearing them call me that. Especially her."
He dropped a hand onto the mortal's thigh, bunching the fabric of her skirt into his fist. "Lord," she breathed, her voice girlish to the point of obscenity. "My Lord."
I rolled my eyes, but the clichés of the scene didn't stop me from watching him work his hand altogether under the dress. She spread her legs to let him. Her lust smelled like sugared mandrake. I lifted an eyebrow and leaned to an angle that gave me a better look at her face.
Watch for more, and in the meantime, you can take a look at what Mofo's put out for you so far.
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